


Wishful

by Andersaur



Series: Saviour [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (briefly) - Freeform, Child Abuse, Friends to Lovers, Hospitals, M/M, Moving On, Past Child Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andersaur/pseuds/Andersaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been successfully rescued from his abusive father. He and Sherlock are just settling into a routine at the hospital when a new disaster comes crashing through the door: Harry Watson.</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1414966/chapters/2972008">One Last Surprise</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Real Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, again! Bit late on my predictions for this sequel. Sorry. I recommend that, if you're unsure, you go back and read the last quarter of this fic's predecessor just to refresh yourself a bit.
> 
> All my thanks, as ever, to my beautiful beta [AdurnaSkulblaka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AdurnaSkulblaka), for all of her patience during my endless badgering.

Harriet Watson had no idea what she was doing. At nineteen years old, she was in the last six months of her gap year, now, before her first year of university started. She’d spent the entire year drinking with her friends, been hospitalised twice – but only _once_ because of alcohol poisoning, thanks – and yet still, when faced with this situation, found she had no idea where to even start looking for her little brother in this cold, dense maze of a hospital. The boy at the desk had told her, “Twenty-seven,” and then pointed off down a corridor labelled “Rooms 101-110”. She’d followed his finger for lack of other instruction, and then used the signs to help with the rest.

She’d ended up standing outside a private room with a blue plate reading “127” screwed to the door. Behind it was an elderly couple – who, quite frankly, didn’t look like either of them were ill enough to be there. As if turning up at her own house to find it swarming with police officers wasn’t confusing enough, now she had useless secretaries to deal with. Fan-fucking-tastic.

All of this complaining, of course, was deflection. She wasn’t an idiot, and she understood perfectly well the tensions that had been roasting their house for the last six years, but, in all that time, she’d never seen it escalate beyond a one-night trip to the hospital. Those policeman had told her that it had all happened three days ago. Three days ago, on Sunday, when she’d last walked out to go and see a fun old friend for a few days. Three days ago, when she’d left her baby brother on his own against their burly, drunken father.

Finally, she found the right corridor, two floors below her first indications. She could see the room with its blue “27” just across from the nurses’ station, and with a gently whined cry of relief, marched on over – only to have her arm caught by security when she got within six foot of the door.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. No visitors allowed right now.” The man was about her height but he was in a black uniform, and had that close-cut hair that could give anyone a sort of gruff aura, and his face left no room for argument.

“I’m his sister,” she snapped at him, snatching her arm from his hold with a sneer. “I’m Harry Watson, I’m his older sister. I need to see him.”

“No visitors, ma’am,” he repeated firmly, stepping in front of her. “He’s got someone in there already, and I’m under strict instructions.”

“Someone’s in with him already? Who? This is ridiculous. What do you want, ID? Get out of my face.” Harry tried to step around him, and he put out an arm. A second and third security guard, both larger women with softer faces but sterner bodies, appeared in Harry’s peripheral vision. “What the fuck is your problem? He’s my brother, I have a right to see him.”

“Please don’t use that language with me. You’re disrespecting both me and the authorities protecting this patient, and if you don’t step away now, I’m going to have to escort you out of the building.” With his outstretched hand, he took her arm and pushed her back so she was in front of him.

Harriet was fuming. “Escort me out, my fucking _arse._ I’m staying right here, I’m going to see my brother. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She tried to push past him, and he grabbed both of her arms this time and began pushing her out, the second lady helping as the first took up his original place by the door. “Hey, wait, what the hell? This is horseshit! John!”

“Alright, enough of that. This is a hospital, and there are patients here. Calm down, please, or I’m taking you in. D’you hear me?”

“John!” Harry screeched, still trying to pull from their hands. “John, get out here!”

“Harry!” John appeared in the doorway of his room, leaning heavily on a boy she’d never seen before. “Oh my God, leave her alone! Let her through. Please. I want her here, that’s my sister.”

The oafs didn’t seem to hesitate, this time, before letting her go. Harriet glared fiercely at both of them, brushing herself and her dirty clothes down as John continued.

“This is a _hospital._ There are people trying to sleep. What the hell do you think you’re play— _oof_ ,” John groaned deeply as Harry flung herself at him, pulling him into a tight hug. He tried his best not to wince at the deep aches she was causing him.

“Oh my God, John, are you alright?!” she breathed, clutching his shoulders as hard as she could.

On Harry’s part, she was trying to pretend she didn’t notice how tightly she was squeezing him. John looked bad – really bad. It had been three days, and there was a misshapen bruise still flowering in purple on his jaw, an ugly brace strapped to his ankle, and a clean white cast on his wrist. Under her fingers, she could feel both the edges of a chest wrap, and a few too many protruding bones. The gaunt look he had about him said he hadn’t slept in weeks, and she was going to hug him forever for letting any of this happen.

“Harry,” John squeaked, and she let go. His eyes were watering, and he took a second to breathe, his hand on his chest as if to keep it together while he got his body back up and running. “God. Hospital gowns make you realise how cold the world actually is. Let’s go in.”

The stranger boy stayed propping John up as they hobbled inside together, Harry closing the door not-so-gently behind them. She left her coat and bag on the floor and turned around to find John tucked safely under the few blankets he had, and the stranger sat on the bed, legs swinging.

“Who’s this, then?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Sherlock,” John wheezed, rubbing his eyes. He waved a hand between the both of them. “Friend from school. Harry, my sister. Sherlock, Harry, Harry, Sherlock.”

“Right,” Harry muttered, staring at Sherlock. “Yeah, okay. Look, to be honest, I don’t care. I want to know how you are, and what happened.”

“What d’you think happened?” John sighed. Sherlock had pulled out his phone to let them talk it through without distraction. “Dad’s just… not well.” Not a complete lie, was it?

“Dad’s an abusive, hateful drunk who got what he deserved, especially if the police were telling me the truth.” She looked down at her lap, and then rested her chin in her hand, her elbow on her knee. “You did good, I guess. I’d probably have killed him first, and _then_ called the police.”

John smiled tightly. Of course she’d assume that was how it had happened. Still, though, he hated it when people spoke about his dad like that, and Harry always seemed to be the first person in line. Despite everything, his dad remained the reason he was still alive.

“Yeah,” he said vaguely, and quickly steered them onto a different subject. “Uh, look, are they letting you home?”

“Nope. Those police fuckers kicked me out. All I could get them to do was direct me to the right hospital.”

“Well, then… call someone. There’s nowhere for you to stay here. Call Clara – does she still live close?”

Harry nodded. “I’ll do it later. What about you, though. You won’t be here much longer. What are they doing with you?”

“They’ve assigned him a social worker, a therapist, and his own personal police officer. My brother will be pushing to have him housed with us,” Sherlock replied blandly, still scrolling aimlessly along the screen of his phone.

“I-it’s the most sensible solution,” John said quickly. “He lives closer to school, and he’s in a lot of my classes. He can, you know, get me the work.” He cleared his throat, wondering how on Earth he’d managed to be this close to Sherlock for this long and not pick up on how to talk like a normal human being.

Harry gave her brother a decidedly unconvinced stare. “Did you finally come out or something?” she asked bluntly. “That why Dad went apeshit?”

John flushed bright red. “What? Harry! No, no, I did not _come out_ , and you can stop that right now, thanks.” He glanced up at Sherlock, who had frozen, still staring silently down at his phone screen. “Besides,” he continued, swallowing, “I’d be long gone if I’d told him anything like that. No, I just told him I still wanted to be a doctor.”

Sherlock looked up. “You were asking me for the answers to a Chemistry paper.”

Harry might have poked at the bruise of her brother’s obviously latent bisexuality if he hadn’t started actually explaining what had happened. “John,” she said softly – a rarity, for her. Soon enough, as her mind worked for the next few seconds, her face steeled. “Let me guess. He called you an idiot and a pansy and then proceeded to beat you into a more manly profession.”

It sounded likely to her, but apparently not to the pretty stranger. Judging from his face – what was his name again, Sherlock? – Harry expected he’d been told a different story.

John pursed his lips. “That was actually his _second_ point,” he muttered proudly, but his eyes were focused on the blanket he was fiddling with. He cleared his throat again. “He told me I wasn’t smart enough, and that it would be silly of people to put their lives in my hands.” Could they really blame him for putting it mildly, here? “He started…”

John trailed off, blinking hard, and felt Sherlock’s warm fingers worm their way between his. He held them and tried again.

“He started off on this huge rant about how I had to stop wasting my time on school, and then changed his mind and said that _I_ was the one wasting the _school’s_ time. And _then_ he started telling me that nursing was a girl’s job. Because he assumed, you know, he thought that, if I wasn’t smart enough to be a doctor, I’d be a nurse.” He swallowed and wiped his eyes, taking a deep breath. “But, um. I told him that actually, nurses were just as smart as doctors. And he said, go on then, show me. Show me how smart you are. Get your homework. But I hadn’t done it yet. So he, he came up to see it. And it just… you know. Happened.” He sniffed again, turning his face to wipe his wet cheeks on his shoulders. “And then he tore my textbooks up and left. Simple as.”

Harry’s fists clenched and unclenched. “Look. You’re smarter than I am. You always have been. Even if you’re not great at everything, you’re competent, and you’ve always been reasonably successful if you’ve put your mind to something. Rugby, clarinet, science, history: you’re _good_ at it, John, and you’re a good person about it. You’re not like me, I just study for the test. You actually _give a shit._ You would give the shirt off your fucking back for people, and everyone knows it. You’re the one that should’ve gotten the posh university money, and gotten the proper education, not me. So if you want to be a doctor, forget about Dad, and go and be a doctor. If that’s what you want, I’ll do what I can to help, even if it means stealing you some proper books to read.” She smiled. “One of us has to turn out decent, John, and I’d rather it be you.”

John wiped his eyes a little less subtly this time, and sniffed a lot harder. How dare people say nice things about him? “Well, thanks, but I don’t want to be a doctor anymore.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, not this again.”

“Yes, this again,” John said firmly, hitting Sherlock’s hand, still clasped in his, down onto the mattress.

“Wait, you… _don’t_ want to be a doctor?” Harry frowned, confused. “What?”

“He keeps saying he wants to be a soldier,” Sherlock muttered to her, his face grim.

John sighed again, and laid back in the bed, turning over. He rolled onto his side so that his back was to the both of them. At least this way he could cry in semi-privacy.

“I guess we could count this as a learning experience,” he said, trying to lighten the mood as he wiped his cheeks with his cast left hand. “Beat me half to death and I’m one-hundred percent guaranteed to change my mind about something. Keep that in mind for the future, hm?”

“The only person getting beaten half to death next time is Dad,” Harry said cheerfully. John could hear the murder in her sing-song voice. “Go be a doctor. Be whatever you want. Just don’t let that drunk bastard dictate your life.”

“He’s not dictating my life,” John argued. Well, he wasn’t now, not from behind those bars. “I just don’t want to be a doctor anymore. I’m capable of making my own decisions, and I’ve changed my mind for my own reasons. What were you planning on being, anyway? Last I heard, you were still working out the best path to becoming a professional mattress-tester.”

Sherlock arched a brow, and Harry chuckled. “Yeah, well, I have a nice sideline in specialty acquisitions right now. The contraband market is where it’s at – or, at least, it will be in uni in September.”

John completely ignored her little comments. He’d been having bad feelings in the last few months that she was actually starting to be serious when she mentioned things like that. “Mm, I guess they have beds everywhere in university. You wouldn’t have to look far for work.”

Harry laughed under her breath, and John felt Sherlock stroking the back of his hand with his thumb. He rolled onto his back again and let the silence calm them all down after the discussion. His head, however, was roaring. Harry wasn’t really very good at keeping in touch, and tended to be a lot more of a free spirit in comparison to John. He had no idea when he’d get to see her again, but still, he didn’t want to tell either of them that he’d spoken to his dad the day before. Sherlock definitely would have been furious at him. So… maybe a different approach.

“I’m going to see Dad soon,” he said quietly, staring at the ceiling. He hoped neither of them would see that he already pretty much had. “If there’s anything important you want me to tell him, you should write it down.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he stared down at John, outraged at the suggestion.

“‘So long and thanks for all the fish’,” Harry answered easily, “but you’re insane to even want to be in the same room as him. “You’d better take someone with you. Preferably a couple of someones. Big someones. With tasers.”

John rolled his eyes and frowned at her. “I’ll be fine. Besides, Sherlock’s coming with me, which means so’s Mycroft, which means so’s the whole British Army, probably. I think I’ll be okay.”

Harry squinted. “Who’s Mycroft?”

“My brother,” Sherlock growled, and this time, when he went back to his phone, he started texting furiously. “He runs Britain.”

“Right,” Harry replied. She obviously didn’t care. She’d noticed quickly, too, that they were going to be arguing in circles for hours if she didn’t stop it soon – John could be far too stubborn for her patience. “So. Have you opened up a little mattress-testing franchise of your own?” she asked instead, giving him a look before she glanced at Sherlock.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock choked, flabbergasted by the suggestion in her voice and face.

John, who had been expecting more arguments on why he shouldn’t see their dad, hadn’t been listening to a word. “Don’t know what you’re on about, Harry,” he murmured automatically, poking gently at the slowly-healing cut on his head. It turned out painkillers didn’t work for direct pokes on fresh wounds.

“Is that so?” she pressed him, smirking. “Your boyfriend seems to know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“See, _this_ is why I refuse to socialise,” Sherlock snapped in annoyance. He reached over and pulled John’s hand away from his face.

“Bloody hell,” John groaned, smacking Sherlock’s hand away from his arm and crossing them instead. Again, he ignored Harry. “Forget the ribs and the head. Having you two in the same room is going to be the thing that kills me.”

“I’m just saying,” Harry said, holding her hands up, “if you walk into any room that has Dad in it and Sherlock is with you, you’re going to end up exactly the same way I did: being called every name in the book and a few more creative combinations besides.”

Sherlock watched as Harry crossed her arms. He looked back at John, and his arms, and then did a quick comparison of their faces. They were more similar than he’d realised.

“I just think,” Harry continued, “that you’re an idiot if you think our father’s homophobically-charged gaydar isn’t going to pick up on this new whatever-it-is between you two.”

Harry smirked at the deep blush crawling over John’s face. She’d only been here a few minutes, and already she’d picked up on it. In truth, it wasn’t even her brother that had tipped her off: it was Sherlock. The more she battled her way into conversation, the more protective he got. He’d moved closer to John. He was glaring at her. If looks could have killed, she’d have been charred to cinders last bloody week.

“Harry,” John said firmly. He lifted his head and looked straight at her. “There’s nothing between us. He’s my friend. He’s helped me. I owe him my life about four times over.”

Harry watched the pair of them carefully, finally beginning to realise what was going on. John looked genuinely confused, and absolutely certain that she was just being her usual overbearing self. Sherlock, however, was staring at her in a much more panicked way. His eyes were wide, his hand gripping John’s tightly, and he seemed to be pleading with her. _Don’t_ , she heard, almost audibly. As she’d said, John was smart. He could work it out for himself.

So, as requested, she didn’t.

“Besides,” John continued, “I’d rather that than this.” He couldn’t have stopped the words coming out as he gestured down at his battered body. “Honestly, Harry, getting _just_ a bollocking would be a blessing right about now.”

It wasn’t that John begrudged her getting off lightly. Of course he didn’t; she was his sister, and he loved her. It was just that, sometimes, he wondered if she actually saw how bad he had it. The evidence was right in front of her, and she was warning him how badly he’d get shouted at. It was surreal.

“Sorry,” he muttered bitterly, blinking at the ceiling.

Harry heaved a sigh and moved her chair closer. Sherlock was tempted to open his mouth and intervene, because he could see a certain _look_ crawling its way up her face, but he was interested to let her say her piece.

“John,” she said quietly, “the difference between you and me is, you don’t fight back. You take it, and take it like anything he does is a personal reflection on your own worth, and one day it’s going to kill you. You think he’s never tried to pound me into the ground? You’re wrong. But it didn’t take him long to figure out that I minimise my exposure and I fight back with whatever’s available. I don’t fight fair, John. I never have.” If she had, perhaps it would have looked less like she’d left her brother for the slaughter. “You fight fair, you end up dead, and I don’t want you dead, John. One of us has to go off and make something of ourselves. Once again: I’d rather it be you. _Doctor_ Watson.”

John couldn’t believe her. He was lying here, in bloody _hospital_ , and she had the nerve to tell him that it was _his_ fault? Everything he and Sherlock had been working on for days was in mind of the eventual goal of getting John to understand that _none_ of it was his fault. He didn’t need her confusing him even more.

“Piss off, Harry!” he spat suddenly. Both of his companions jumped. “Just fucking _piss off_ , already. I don’t need you sitting there and telling me how much of a wimp I am, because, believe it or not, it’s actually _not_ helping, and it’s not as fucking simple as that, alright?” John sat up suddenly with the intention of looking her right in the eye. “I think you’re forgetting that he’s _twice_ my bloody size, and, in case you’re forgetting this, too, I had a sister to think about. Do you know how many times he’s threatened to take your university funding away and drag you back home if I didn’t do this, or do that? He let you go because I let him beat _me,_ you ungrateful shit, so just leave me alone!”

Harry couldn’t speak. John had flopped back against the bed and turned so he had his back to both of them. His hands, one finally snatched from Sherlock’s, were wrapped around his middle, desperately trying to hold his ribcage together as his breathing sped up and started crackling wildly. She’d seen him upset before, certainly, but this was beyond anything she’d ever experienced. She could’ve taken care of herself, she wanted to say, but, for once, the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. It made her sick with guilt to think that John had put himself through hell because he’d thought he was protecting her.

“John?” Sherlock said clearly, and Harry blinked herself back to reality. Sherlock seemed to have every idea of what was happening, and he hit the call button for the nurses and pushed John onto his back, tilting his head up to clear his airways. “Get out of here, Harry.”

“The hell I will!”

“Get out before they don’t let you come back,” he said instead, shooting her a fierce scowl. “I’ll call you.”

John’s raspy breathing stuttered, and he jerked upright, coughing and choking spots of blood into his hands and over the bedsheets. Sherlock pushed him back down, but Harry was shocked into inaction, barely moving a muscle until the team of nurses came in and bodily moved her outside. John was still panicking on the bed, hardly able to breathe despite the oxygen mask now covering his face, and clutching desperately at Sherlock as a young male nurse tried to pull him away.

“It’s alright,” the man said, pushing him aside. “We’ve got him, step back.”

“Down to radiology,” someone called, and the bed started moving before Sherlock realised what was happening.

“Wait,” he demanded, grabbing hold of the railing and pulling it back, “I need to go with him. I’m his boyfriend. He needs me, he won’t keep still without me.”

“We’re only taking him for an x-ray,” the nurse said, taking his hands from the railing and getting the bed moving again. “He’ll be back up in ten minutes.”

They made it past the door for four seconds before he pushed his way back in again.

“Alright, you can come down with us,” he said reluctantly, opening the door for Sherlock.

John, in his bed, was crying out, desperately short of breath. “Sherlock,” he wheezed, grabbing and shoving wildly. “God, please, Sherlock.”

“I’m here,” Sherlock said, smiling both to comfort John and find an outlet for his smug I-told-you-so. “It’s okay, I’m right here. You’re alright. Just listen to me, you’re okay. Relax.”

John thought nothing of it as Sherlock bent his head and kissed his forehead. A thumb wiped something wet from his bottom lip. “Where’d Harry go?” he groaned, and then coughed gently against another crackle in his chest. “Did I scare her? Didn’t mean to scare her. I got angry. Tell her I’m sorry, please.”

“She’s here,” Sherlock eased. Or, at least, she couldn’t have gone far. “I’ll tell her. Listen, they’re taking you for some x-rays. They’re just going to make sure nothing’s happened.”

“They already did them,” John argued, his face crumpling. “While I was asleep the other day, they did them. When they got here. And they put this on me.” He lifted his broken wrist, indicating his cast.

“That was before you started having breathing problems,” he reasoned. “It’s possible that swelling has gone down and things have shifted, or that yelling dislodged something. That’s why why they need more x-rays.” Sherlock pressed another kiss to John’s forehead. This whole pretend-boyfriends thing was working out well for him so far. “Shall I go and find Harry, or do you want me to come with you?”

“Stay,” John barked quickly, grabbing at his sleeves. “I can’t think without you.”

“That’s because you’re still traumatised, and I’m doing my best to compensate for that,” Sherlock explained, and he kissed John’s head again.

John wanted him to stay, and he stayed. They went down to radiology in the lift, John occasionally coughing up more spots of blood into the oxygen mask, and then crying helplessly about the horrendous pain he was in. The x-ray itself took just a minute for all the pictures they took, and they brought John back to his room before talking to him.

“Okay, you’ve got a little problem with your left lung,” a radiologist explained, holding up a picture to the pair of them on an iPad that, Sherlock thought, seemed incredibly unnecessary. “This is your chest. If you look here, you can see a few of your ribs have been damaged, and you can see in this area that your lung looks very different to the one on this side.”

She seemed to be talking for ages, John thought, and he could hardly breathe. After a minute he closed his eyes and let Sherlock deal with it, because he was incredibly tired, and they wouldn’t give him any pain relief. Eventually, though, after what sounded like a long stream of questions, he got fed up and reached up to pull the oxygen mask from his face.

“Sherlock,” he rasped, reaching with his bad hand to pat him on the arm. He had his attention immediately. “Where’s Harry?”

Sherlock’s warm fingers combed between his immediately. “Probably making some other security guard’s life hell. Would you like me to go and find her?”

“No,” John said certainly, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “Need you here to remind me that I’m not dying. Send someone else.”

Sherlock scoffed. He reached over with his free hand and pushed the mask back over John’s mouth. His reply was automatic. “You’re not dying. You’re just bruised all over and have one lung temporarily out-of-order, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” John groaned, the words muffled behind the mask, “you’re right, I don’t know what I was complaining about.”

“Boys,” the radiologist interrupted, “I’m sorry, but it really is important we get on fixing this as soon as possible. I’m going to go and call a doctor in to sort you out, alright?”

John waited until she’d left to cough a few more times, another spot or two of blood staining his tongue. “What’re they gonna do? They gonna put me under?”

“No,” Sherlock answered. He should have known John wasn’t going to be listening to the questions he’d asked. “She said the air that’s meant to be in your left lung has seeped outside of it and into your chest cavity. They’re going to release it for you.”

“How?”

“A needle.”

“Where?”

“Your side, between your ribs.”

“‘m I going to sleep?”

“I don’t think so.” Sherlock rubbed his forehead. “But I’ll be here the whole time. It’s going to be okay. It won’t hurt a bit.”

John’s breathing, as if it wasn’t already suffering enough, sped up even more. “I want to go to sleep.”

“They need you awake so they know it’s worked, John. It’ll be okay.” Sherlock gave him a tight smile and patted his hand. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

It wasn’t. John didn’t find it the least bit ‘okay’. The whole way through, he was light-headed from his wracked breathing and blind from the onslaught of tears that the pain brought with it. The procedure was neither short nor relieving, as he still couldn’t breathe even after they’d all pronounced him fit and left. He couldn’t handle it.

“You’re already on medication to deal with the injuries you received on… Sunday, was it?” The nurse frowned and consulted his chart. “Your dosage got lowered, in fact, due to the adverse reactions you had.”

“He needs more,” Sherlock insisted, glaring hard at the nurse and holding tight onto John’s hand, as ever. “He’s in agony. Put the numbers back up.”

It took a bit more discussion, but the nurse eventually left with a promise to seek out a doctor. As soon as she was gone, John pulled the mask down from his mouth again.

“Harry,” he rasped in reminder to Sherlock.

“I’ve already dealt with it. She’s in the waiting room. I wanted to make sure you were okay before she came back in.” Sherlock kissed his knuckles. John didn’t notice.

“C’we get this bloody thing off now?” he asked, tapping the mask with his thumb. “It’s hurting my nose.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You need it. You’ve only got one lung for the next week or two, it’s important to keep your oxygen levels up. You should know that, _Doctor_.”

John’s argument was immediate, though his exhausted eyes remained closed. “‘m not a doctor, I don’t have to know anything. Soldiers are supposed to be dumb.”

“No, soldiers are supposed to be smart. They have to be able to predict exactly when and where they need to be paying attention, and organise appropriate surprise attacks and strikes on enemies. They need to be able to work in a team, and lead a team, which means understanding all sorts of things about other people, and common sense. They need to be able to think on their feet and decide what’s best for their team at that time.” Why, yes, Sherlock definitely was going to use John’s ‘dream’ against him. If it was the only way to make him understand his own worth, they would be using it.

John didn’t have a reply to that, so he pushed the mask back into place and breathed for a little while. Sure enough, a short while later, a nurse came with a small top-up of morphine for him. As soon as it was pumped into the tap in his arm, his whole body relaxed, his breathing finally slowing slightly, though it remained ragged. He opened his eyes and finally looked at Sherlock clearly. As Sherlock looked right back, he could see every muscle in John’s body finally unwinding and loosening just the way they all needed to, and he couldn’t help but smile. Unfortunately, in his habit of noticing things, he also noticed the way John’s eyes widened slightly, and seemed to go just out of focus.

He sighed. “Jesus,” he muttered, leaning in to rest his chin on the bed. “You’re bloody high again, aren’t you?”

John replied with nothing but a tremendously breathy cackle from behind his mask, starting quietly and slowly building up to deep, infectious giggles.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his face into the blankets, not sure he could deal with another six-year-old John. “Close your eyes, John.”

“Close your eyes,” John parroted, with the emphasis on all the wrong words. Sherlock could tell he was speaking just for the sake of speaking.

“Go to sleep,” Sherlock said, grinning at the awed look on John’s face.

“Sleep with me,” he said eagerly, pulling on Sherlock’s hand. “Nice big bed. I made room.”

John didn’t seem to realise that he hadn’t actually made any room for Sherlock at all, but he didn’t mind. With another smile, Sherlock stood and bodily lifted John, hefting him from the bed and setting him down a bit further over. To his credit, John didn’t make any noise at all.

“You’re so high right now,” he teased as he climbed onto the bed. Stick thin, he fit nice and snug between John and the railing that he clicked back into place. “You’re going to freak out later when you wake up and realise I’m right beside you.”

“I’m right beside you,” John echoed again, an excitable smile on his face. The mask was back down by his neck, but he seemed alright, so Sherlock let it slide. Before he could answer, however, John turned his head to look at him, suddenly serious. At a delicate whisper, as if anybody were about to walk in, he said, “Sherlock, are we boyfriends?”

“No, John,” Sherlock replied softly.

John, however, made a funny, teasing noise. He slid his hand up Sherlock’s front to grip his chin, squashing his cheeks and mouth until his lips were perked appropriately. “But were you enjoying to kiss me?”

Oh, hell. Sherlock supposed he should have known he’d be hearing of it again. “It wasn’t unpleasant,” he admitted, working to keep the flush from his cheeks, “and you didn’t seem upset by it.”

“Twice,” John said, as if replying but actually continuing his train of thought. “Two times,” he reiterated, that time to remind himself what ‘twice’ meant.

When he opened his mouth to say something else, all the words he knew flew out of his head. Instead, he gave Sherlock’s mouth another affectionate squeeze before trying again.

“How you knew when to say ‘boy’?”

That time, even he could hear that it didn’t quite make sense. He thought for another second, and then tried again. “When you told her you were a… my boy. How did you… so quickly? Your head goes so fast. I wish mine goes that fast.”

It took Sherlock a long second to translate the words that were coming out of John’s mouth into something that made more sense. He’d explained this to John before, he thought, but he’d just woken up at the time. It was very likely that he hadn’t been listening at all.

“I told them I was your boyfriend for two reasons: firstly, so they’d keep me close to you, and secondly, so they’d assume that your father had beaten you up because you were gay. A lie, sure, but it served my purposes. They treat hate crimes a bit differently to how they treat typical abuse, and I wanted them to be very thorough in your case.”

John went still immediately. His eyes glinted in the light, moisture gathering, and Sherlock’s heart sank in his chest at the realisation that he may have said something John didn’t appreciate. The fingers tightened around his chin, squashing his lips together again, as John spoke.

“That’s the sweetest thing someone’s done for me,” he said quietly, his voice rough. “Sweetest ever. You’re very nice.”

They were close, so close. John remembered every instance in the last few days where Sherlock had held his hand, kissed his head, or stroked his hair. He had to return the favour, clearly. With a watery smile and a swift movement of his hand from a chin to a chest, he turned his head and kissed Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock, where he lay, felt warmth bloom right from the middle of his chest and flush outwards. He fought to avoid squirming on the spot.

“I’m only nice to you,” he reminded him, rolling onto his side and resting his hand on John’s hip to keep him from moving so much. “And you’re really drugged right now, so keep that in mind before you do something you’re going to get embarrassed about later. Put your mask back on.”

John grinned and broke into a quiet fit of giggles, pulling Sherlock closer with the arm spread across his body. Soon enough, his ribs started aching, and they slowed to a gentle stop.

“Nice to me is nice enough,” he decided. At a loss as to what to say next, he turned to the only thing on his mind. “Were you see my chest? And it bruised?”

This time, Sherlock didn’t bother spending his lacking mental energy on translating John’s babble; the drugs were beginning to talk. “Go to sleep, John,” he said with a chuckle, “you’re high. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Sleep?!” John shrieked, mocking outrage. It seemed that his voice was stuck on the ‘shout’ setting as he continued, cackling. “I’m not sleep, I had sleep! Why’s it so dark? It’s been sleep already. Lights on! Put all them on so they can see!”

Sherlock sighed. If John kept on like this, he’d wake the entire ward, and then he’d be sent away just as Harry probably had been. So, instead, he did what seemed to be the easiest and fastest thing he could think of to solve the problem. He pulled John down and kissed him, hard, on the mouth.

John reacted automatically, his lips moving in time against Sherlock’s even though his mind didn’t quite understand what was happening. Beside him, Sherlock couldn’t quite understand it himself. He’d expected John to freeze for a moment, and then start squirming and beating on his shoulders until he let him go. But this… this was a much nicer alternative.

Eventually, both of them had to pull away for a breath, and John flopped back with his arms spread. He chuckled warmly.

“You never kissed me like that before,” he pointed out, thoroughly pleased with the whole thing.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. “You’ve never started screaming in the middle of the night on a hospital ward before.”

“You should be my boyfriend all the time.” John slid his hand back into Sherlock’s in an attempt to pull him close again. “Do it again. Do it again if I shout again?”

“I’ll do it again if you _don’t_ shout again.” On one hand, it was a bargaining chip. A mechanism of control that he could brush off later as such, if need be. On the other hand, it was _John_. _John_ , and a curiosity he had that was proving ever more intriguing and pleasant to satisfy.

When John looked up at him with that big, goofy grin, not a word on his lips, Sherlock followed through on his promise – after unhooking the oxygen mask from around John’s head, despite his wispy breathing. He bent down again and brushed his lips over John’s once more, a lot more cautiously this time. After all, unlike John, it was only his second kiss ever.

“Slowcoach,” John teased, that grin splitting his face again as soon as they parted.

Sherlock nipped John’s bottom lip. “Don’t be an arse.”

He laughed excitedly and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, using his firm cast to tug him down and into another kiss.

“You kiss good,” he commented with a slur. He blinked hard, his head spinning under the pressure of his pounding heart. He forced another kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Never kissed a boy before. Why I never kissed you before?”

“Because you’re too uptight about it and it would’ve given you one more thing to angst about,” Sherlock shot back between the kisses, truthful to a fault. “Your father was already beating you up. You never would have wanted to give him a reason for it – not that his reasons were valid to begin with.”

John snorted some faint giggles through his nose, evidently having not understood a single word that had come his way. His irritatingly determined pecks and kisses had started moving on, creating a sloppy, wet trail down Sherlock’s chin and jaw as he tried to get to his neck, ignorant of the squirming protests.

“You’re so soft,” he breathed, his nose tucked under Sherlock’s jaw. “All soft and sweet… warm.”

Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder and pushed gently, his face tensing sadly. “And you are drugged to the gills and not meaning a thing you’re saying. I’m not going to take advantage of you, John.”

John paused under his hands and shrank away slightly.

“I’m not that much drugged.” He took a hand from Sherlock’s neck to his face and rubbed his eyes. “Don’t you like me? Because of my chest?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. _Definitely_ the wrong thing to say, he decided, but John was still going, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say to make it better.

“I’ll keep it covered,” John continued, his voice thickening and breaking. “It’ll go away soon, promise. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

All Sherlock could think to do was wrap his arms around John and hug him close. He even thought as far as cupping his head to his shoulder so he had a place to hide his face while he cried.

“It’s not because of that,” he explained. “It’s because if you didn’t have a morphine drip in your arm, you wouldn’t be nearly as affectionate as you are right now, and it wouldn’t be fair to you to continue on like this. It can wait until you’re not drugged up. It’s not going to change things on my end.”

To John, the whole thing had been a purring wall of noise. “I don’t understand.”

 _Smaller words,_ Sherlock thought. _Use smaller words._

“Hey,” he said. “Do you like me?”

“Yeah,” John said firmly. His nod was slow and uncertain, but his hand was sure in its movement to stroke Sherlock’s chest. “My best friend. You saved me.”

Sherlock’s hand moved to capture John’s and hold it there, to his heart. “Are you always going to be my friend?”

John nodded again, his eyes filling once more. He bit his lip. “Always,” he squeaked. His wet eyes were glued to their joined hands. “I promise always. As long as you want. Always.”

He watched as Sherlock lifted his hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “You’re my best friend, too. I want you around for as long as you want to be around.”

“Always,” John confirmed. “I think you’re fantastic.”

“You say so often enough.” Sherlock smiled and kissed John’s forehead softly. With any luck, he wouldn’t remember any of it in the morning. “You’re lovely, you know. Perfect.”

This time, John shook his head. “People don’t think that. I can’t… think things, like you can.”

“You’re perfect,” Sherlock said again. “Perfect for me.”

John let that slide. He closed his eyes with a shallow sigh, exhaustion taking him. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t mind if he had a little nap. “Where Harry’s gone?”

In reality, Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he had a bit of an idea. “They’ve sent her away. It’s gotten a bit late, so she’ll probably be back in the morning. Here, put this on, and get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

John was glad to have the opportunity to close his eyes and fall asleep, even if he did have to have the oxygen mask digging into his face again. It felt like it had been years since he’d last been asleep – and, this time, as if things couldn’t get any better, he had Sherlock snuggled up against him as his own personal heater.


	2. The Real Issue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there are words to describe my feelings about how late this chapter is. Let's not speak of it. Merry Christmas to all!

The promise was kept: when John awoke from his drug-induced nap, Sherlock was still right there beside him. Granted, he’d fallen asleep and was drooling on his edge of the pillow, but he was still there, and that was what mattered most.

Not that it meant anything to John. So far, he couldn’t remember a single thing that had happened in the last twelve, maybe twenty-four hours. He remembered Harry bursting in on them, and something about beds. Mattresses, more like, though he wasn’t sure exactly why he remembered that, of all things. There was a thick fog clouding his head, too, as if his brain was a wind-up clock that was running out of ticks.

Bleary-eyed, he took his time waking up, but, no matter how hard he tried, couldn’t work out what time or day it was. The one thing that seemed to be firmly stamped in his head was the echoing memory of his father, and the words, ‘I love you, too.’

He bit back a smile and reached around to Sherlock. He didn’t know where his own phone was, but he discovered Sherlock’s in his pocket and fiddled around for a few minutes. It was no use; he couldn’t guess the password.

Gingerly, he pulled his mask down and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “Phone password,” he whispered gently.

Sherlock hummed. “John.”

“Phone password,” John said again, a bit louder this time. “Bored.”

“Mm. _John_ ,” Sherlock repeated, the word growled into the pillow.

John thought for a moment, and then tapped ‘j-o-h-n’ into the phone and watched the screen give way. He smiled at Sherlock, but another line of drool was already making its way onto the pillow. Well, he supposed it was good that he’d gone back to sleep. John put Harry’s number into the phone and sent her a clumsy text, the mask abandoned under his chin.

Dad told me he loved me. JW

_You talked to Dad? OMG! Are you okay?_

Not really. Maybe? Can’t tell. He was horrible, and then I told him I loved him and he said it back, and then he said, ‘Son, get help’. But he said it. JW

John’s eyes filled again, but this time, he was smiling. He slid his cast hand into Sherlock’s under the covers – it wasn’t like he could use it to text, anyway.

_He’s always horrible. What else did he say?_

_And how did they let you talk to him? Thought you weren’t supposed to._

Sherlock was asleep. JW

_What did you say to him?_

Just told him I’d be staying with Sherlock. And that I’d see him later in the week. I’m going when I get out of here. JW

_I don’t think you should go alone._

You think Sherlock would let me go on my own? JW

John actually snorted a wheezy laugh just at the idea, and returned the oxygen mask to his face. The medication was helping, but he was still hurting – always was, these days, it seemed. Keeping still helped make it easier to tune out. But, really, who cared? His dad _loved_ him. With a content sigh and an excitable grin, he couldn’t help but squeeze Sherlock’s hand. He must have been awake, because the hand in his squeezed back gently.

_Sherlock wouldn’t. That’s why you called Dad while he was asleep._

I was bored. JW

John locked the phone and slid it back into Sherlock’s pocket, sick of Harry’s damp wetting his newfound high. He rolled onto his side to face his bed partner and lifted their joined hands to his face, holding Sherlock’s fingers to his cheek in an affectionate embrace. He heard the phone vibrate in his pocket, but ignored it, closing his eyes in wait of Sherlock’s proper waking up. A few minutes later, Sherlock’s thumb started moving against his jaw, stroking gently, and his phone went off again.

“You want me to check those?” John asked quietly, tapping Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock groaned an obvious negative.

The door flew open, bouncing off the wall. “John!”

“Harry!” John sat up, and was immediately caught in another crushing bear hug from Harry with barely enough time to lower his mask again. By the time she let go, Sherlock was sat up and rubbing his eyes. John glanced at him, flushing bright pink at being caught sharing a bed with another boy. He worked quickly to fill the room with conversation. “Where are you staying?”

“With Clara,” she replied dismissively. “Jesus Christ, John, are you alright? They wouldn’t let me stay the night. I had no idea what was going on. What happened?”

“Just a rib,” John said, equally dismissively. “Does she know you’re here?”

“Of course she does. I kissed her on the way out. She says you’re daft for talking to Dad.”

“You _what_?” Sherlock looked one part outraged and two parts shocked.

“Harry!” John cried again, hitting her arm. She’d said it on purpose, he knew. She’d known Sherlock had been asleep. “It’s fine, Sherlock. Honestly, he was alright. I was just checking on him.” He turned and tried to smile. “Trust me.”

Sherlock wasn’t buying it. “The reason they don’t want victims to have contact with their abusers is to make a clean break and reorient to a non-warped version of reality.”

“Well, maybe you can figure out what he said, then,” Harry said sharply, “because my dad isn’t known for displays of affection, and apparently he told John that he loved him and to get help.”

Sherlock gawked at him. “Really? What else did he say?”

John blushed deeply, barely biting back an ecstatic grin. “I don’t remember.” He shrugged, plucking at the blanket. “Just stuff, I guess. The rest doesn’t matter. Not to me.”

Sherlock knew John must have had every word of the conversation memorised. He gave him a suspicious look, but didn’t push his luck. Instead, he pouted. “You could’ve woken me up first.”

“You wouldn’t have let me do it – but thank you for at least pretending.” John smiled tightly, and then his little smile accidentally spread into an excitable grin. He reached for Harry and pulled her in for another hug. Harry hesitated for a moment, and then John felt her hands on his back.

“Look,” he continued, pulling away slightly. “I know both of you think I’ve done something awful and made a huge mistake, but I knew what I was doing and I’m glad I did it, so… just don’t, please.”

“We worry about you,” Sherlock explained.

“Handled worse than a phone call these last few years. I’m sure I’ll be fine. I just wanted to talk to him.”

“But why?” Harry pressed. She knew John wouldn’t be happy with what she was about to say, but these were the facts, and he had to accept them. “I just can’t figure out what answer you were looking for that he hadn’t already given you. Our dad’s a sorry drunk who’s never gotten over the fact that bad things happen in life. It’s as simple as that.”

John squirmed on the spot, his jaw tensing. He sank back onto his pillows, beginning to regret ever telling either of them. “I dunno. It doesn’t matter, I just wanted to talk.”

“Alright,” Harry murmured. She put a hand on John’s shoulder, and, with a sigh, rubbed his arm fondly. “I won’t badger you.”

John nodded. He looked up at Sherlock, but he was staring back intently. No such promise came from his lips.

“Let’s get lunch,” he said instead, and he pulled his phone from his pocket. “What do you fancy?”

John shrugged. “I really don’t mind. What’s near?”

“I can go,” Harry said, stepping away. “I’ll go and grab some Chinese or something.”

“Have you got money?”

“Here.” Sherlock’s hand popped between the two of them, along with a fifty pound note.

John blinked down at the hand. “Where the hell have you been keeping that?”

“Mycroft provided me with some funds when he allowed me back in,” Sherlock explained, pushing his hand further forwards. “I really do have to go back to school on Monday, though.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be with you by then, anyway.” John took the note and held it out to Harry.

“Any requests?” Harry asked, tucking it into her pocket in replacement of her phone, which had just chimed. She looked down at it. “Oh.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said, sliding his own phone back into his pocket.

She gave him a tight smile and walked out. John glanced back at Sherlock, who was still staring at him intently.

“I’m okay,” he said with a frown. “I’m really okay.”

“Do you remember what happened last night?” he said instead.

John blinked. “What happened last night?”

“Your lungs,” Sherlock reminded him. “Harry was here, and a small shard of one of your ribs punctured and collapsed one of your lungs. You had to have a needle put into your side to release the air.”

“Yeah,” John breathed – or, rather, rasped. He gave up and covered his mouth with the oxygen mask for a minute, closing his eyes. “Mm, remember a bit of it.”

“Do you remember waking up?”

John nodded, eyes still closed. “Mhm. Used your phone to text Harry.”

“No,” Sherlock said. He sat up. “You woke up once before. I didn’t expect you to remember it, you were high as a bloody kite.”

John smiled wearily. “Go on, then. What’d I say?”

Sherlock debated whether or not to tell John. Granted, it was a bit late to avoid giving the truth now. It could either solve some problems that had arisen between them, or upset John completely. At last, he said, “You kissed me. Repeatedly.”

John’s reaction was either severely delayed or non-existent. “I’m sorry, I what?”

“You _kissed_ me,” he repeated casually, trying to relax the situation. “As I said, you were high as a kite on the morphine, and being affectionate and self-revelatory, and you were upset that I wouldn’t let you act on intoxicated and uninhibited impulses. Though, in all fairness, you were yelling at the top of your lungs first, and I kissed you to shut you up. But the next four times were all you.”

John’s eyes widened and his cheeks blushed a bright pink. “Oh my God. Jesus. I’m so sorry. Oh, fuck, I feel sick.”

“Calm down, John, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Sherlock shuffled closer immediately and put his hand on John’s back. “John, listen to me. You’ve only got one lung working properly at the moment. It’s not safe for this to happen right now. Follow me, follow my breathing. You’re alright.”

John shook his head, trying his best to keep track of Sherlock and not spiral into a panic attack. “F-fuck.”

Sherlock started counting. He held the mask against John’s face with what was likely too much force, but he really didn’t like the idea of an even more damaged lung. He kept counting and breathing with John until tears were no longer streaming down his cheeks and the healthy flush returned to his sickly white face.

“‘m sorry,” John said again, shaking his head until Sherlock’s hand fell. “Really, really sorry. And don’t say that it’s okay, or that it’s what friends do, because it’s not. It’s… completely out of line for me to dump everything on you like this. I’m sorry for kissing you, and I’m sorry you have to waste your time keeping me company when all I do is cry and puke. You can go if you want. I won’t keep you anymore.”

John, his head hung in exhaustion and his hands gripping the mask tight to his face, didn’t think he could take much more of this. He’d always been independent – well, maybe not always, but certainly for the last couple of years – and, before he knew it, everything he had had been taken away from him. He was walking on glass, just waiting for it to crack. It would crack. He knew it would crack. The waiting, however, was exhausting.

“John,” Sherlock said, after looking at John for a long time as if he were some new species of idiot, “shut up. You might have died of your injuries and your own stubbornness if I hadn’t called. It _is_ okay, it _is_ what friends do, it’s _not_ out of line at _all_ , you are _not_ dumping _anything_ on me, it is _not_ a waste of my time, and I’m _not_ actually convinced that you’re sorry for kissing me. So start acting like you’re worth more than the fair market value of the chemical constituents of your body, because I would not be here if I didn’t want to be.”

John, his face crumpled behind the oxygen mask and his hands, sniffed hard. “I told him,” he sobbed, and a few sharper sniffs overtook his choked voice. His eyes were closed, but more fat tears still striped his cheeks. “I, on the phone, I said… I’d go over. He could… he could…”

“Could what, John?” Sherlock pressed. He wiped the tears back with his thumbs. “What did you say?”

John shook his head.   
“No, you need to tell me,” he insisted, more softly this time. “Please. I have to know.”

John stuttered another strangled inhale. “Said he could finish the job. But he still said no,” he added at Sherlock’s horrified look. “He didn’t even want to kill me, Sherlock. ‘m not even worth that.”

Sherlock couldn’t quite form the right words just then. He kept wiping John’s face and stroking his head, desperate to calm him down – and then had a stroke of genius. “But, John, listen to me. Hold on, and listen to me. He told you he loved you.” He chose his words carefully – still, he didn’t believe the man’s words, but John wouldn’t notice. “Maybe he said no _because_ he loves you. It’s not that he can’t stand to have his hands on you, or whatever you think it is. It’s that he wants you to live.”

“I need to go and see him,” John whimpered, rubbing his eyes and pushing the mask from his face. He sat up. “I need to go. Please.”

“No, John, no,” Sherlock said quickly. He tried to hold him at the wrists, but the boy was wriggling like mad. “You need to stay here. You’re not helping yourself by acting like a wild animal. First of all, you can’t go home, you’d have to go to my home. Second, you can’t just walk out of here, anyway. Third, you’re upsetting me.”

Originally, John had been planning on ignoring everything Sherlock said, smacking his hands away, and running home to wait for his dad. He had the scene in his head. He’d be sitting on the stairs, watching the front door. After a few days, it’d all blow over. A set of keys would jangle in the lock. The look on his dad’s face when he opened the door and John was sitting there…

He wiped his cheeks. “I’m not,” he muttered simply, refusing to believe that he could possibly be doing something so horrible to someone who’d been so kind to him. “Told you, I’m okay. Nothing they can do for my lung, all I need to do is go easy for a few days. The bones are cast and wrapped. I’ve endured worse pains with no painkillers.” He patted his ever-sore shoulder. “I don’t need to be here.”

“ _I_ need you to be here.” Sherlock’s hands moved down to hold John’s. It occurred to him that, of _course_ , the only way to get John to comply with proper care was to convince him that it had nothing to do with him personally and everything to do with someone else. “ _I_ need you to take your medicine, and stay off your ankle, and get rest, and not aggravate your injuries. _I_ need you to treat yourself with the same level of respect that _you_ would treat anyone else in the same situation that you’re in right now. I need you to hold yourself to the same standard of care that everyone else around here is getting. I need you to do that for me, John.”

John’s head was hanging down, his chin back to his chest. The tears were rolling endlessly down his cheeks, but his shoulders hitched occasionally with sharp, stuttering sniffles. “Why?”

He squeezed John’s hands. “Because I need you to know that you’re a human being who has been treated horribly by another human being, and that there’s no justification for it, and that it wasn’t your fault, and that nobody is ever going to treat you like that again. You’re my best friend, John. My only friend, really. And I’m not going to let you treat yourself like shit just because you believe that’s the way life is supposed to be for you.”

John laid down properly, Sherlock’s hands pulled to rest under his cheek as he closed his eyes. He felt the tears roll down his temple and settle into the gaps between Sherlock’s fingers. With intentions focused around returning the oxygen mask to John’s face, Sherlock went down with him, lying to face him and make sure that he was alright. Only once John was sure he could speak properly and not sound too pathetic did he open his mouth.

“You make it sound like a right sob story when you put it like that.”

Sherlock hesitated for a second before leaning in and kissing John’s forehead gently. “It _is_ a right sob story if you step back and look at it. Seriously, change the names, put it in third person, and tell it to yourself. It’ll put a whole new perspective on things for you.”

John opened his red-rimmed eyes and looked at Sherlock with a distinctly sad look about him. He did look much more sympathetic with the mask on, Sherlock supposed. He sighed. “You’re responsible for your choices, and your father is responsible for his. Just remember that, won’t you?”

“He really did say it,” John insisted. He’d never grow tired of showing it off. “That he loves me.”

“You seem better for having heard it,” Sherlock observed coolly.

John almost scoffed. He hadn’t just _heard_ it, he _knew_ it. “I am,” he said proudly. “I know you don’t believe him, but I know him. Just… be open-minded.”

“You can’t change him, John,” Sherlock murmured, “and I don’t want you to wear yourself out trying when you need to be taking care of yourself.”

He pulled back a bit. “I don’t need to change him. Everyone makes mistakes. I still love him and he still loves me. I know it. I’m certain.”

“Just be careful. For me. Please.”

John smiled encouragingly. “I’m always careful. Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

“You two are adorable,” Harry said from the doorway, a white plastic bag swinging off her finger.

John blushed deeply and rolled onto his back with a long-suffering greeting. Sherlock’s eyes lingered on his face before he too rolled over and sat up.

For the few boxes Harry had bought, the Chinese food looked like a feast fit for a king to John. The spread smelt better than anything he’d ever experienced before, and even if some of the food looked a bit greasy or squishy, he was still going to try his best at trying all of it. After all, he only remembered one of these things from before his mother had died – the rest were a mystery. Sherlock kept him brave, however, by almost forcing the food between his lips. “Try this,” he’d say, a piece of chicken balanced between some chopsticks already hovering in front of his mouth. “And this one next,” he’d follow, with what appeared to be a piece of sponge covered in red sauce held up.

John ate all of it. Well, they finished the three containers between them, somehow. Sherlock had half of one, Harry had a whole, and John had his whole one, too – plus the second half of Sherlock’s.

He put the tub down with a content sigh and closed his eyes, hands rested on his stomach. “God. That was amazing. We need to get that again.”

“Dad hasn’t been feeding you, has he?”

John opened his eyes to find Harry staring at him, a thoughtful and stormy frown clouding her face. He shrugged and tipped his head back again. “I cook what I need. It’s fine.”

“It’s not, though, is it?” she pressed. John heard her sit up.

“Could you go and put those containers in the bin? There’s one down the hall.”

Harry looked at Sherlock, who stared back at her with a blank face. Her temper already flaring, she huffed as she scooped the tubs back into the plastic bag and left to find a bin – or, rather, to leave the boys to talk.

John opened his eyes when the door swung closed, and was shocked to find Sherlock right beside him in the bed again. “When did you…” he trailed off, shaking his head. A sudden urge rose, hot and fierce, in his chest. How easy would it have been for him to pucker his lips and kiss his best friend, right then and there? He blinked. Clearly his body remembered more about the night before than he did.

He tore his gaze from Sherlock’s lips. “Um. I know you’ve answered this already, but I just want to make sure. Can I stay with you for a bit?”

“Of course. Though, I should warn you, Mycroft may be relocating me to somewhere intensely posh like Charing Cross.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John smiled. “Perhaps you don’t know the joys of double-glazing, but I dream about it frequently. I’ve never stayed in Central before,” he mused. “Maybe he’ll put you somewhere with a view. I’d love to see the city.”

Sherlock grinned and shuffled in closer, moving John’s oxygen mask down and out of the way of their conversation. “You’re thinking about kissing me, but you don’t want to admit it. You want to be close, but now that your inhibitions are back up to normal, you wouldn’t dream of actually doing it.”

“Can’t get anything past you, hm?” John said fondly, looking over Sherlock’s features again. He seemed very close, all of a sudden.

“No, you can’t. Partly because we’ve already had this conversation.”

John rolled his eyes, and kept them closed. “You have, maybe.”

In a split second, Sherlock came closer still and kissed him. It was a simple, gentle press of lips, but it was warm and comforting, and everything John needed. It took him a second to remember how to kiss back. Strange, really, he supposed. He’d never kissed a boy before, but, as far as memory served, it felt almost identical to kissing a girl. Or maybe that was just Sherlock. The longer it went on, the more he had to remind himself that, actually, this wasn’t their first kiss. They’d done this before, Sherlock had said, but it definitely didn’t feel like it.

For Sherlock, this seemed more of a first kiss than their first one. This time, John was in his right mind. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he still wanted it. This was different. This was _real._ There was a soft twist in his chest at the realisation.

John suitably broke the mood. “My dad’s gonna kill you for making me gay.”

Sherlock snorted. “You were already bisexual. I just eased you over your fear of experimentation.”

“Would you mind not telling me I’m gay before I’ve realised it, please?” John teased, punching Sherlock gently on the arm. “Let me have my identity crisis in peace.”

“You were perfectly enthusiastic about your identity crisis last night,” Sherlock reminded him, and while he could have said more, he elected not to.

John made a face at him and brought the oxygen mask back over his mouth. He needed some help catching his breath after all of the talking and eating – and, besides. Now he had a real reason to get better. Now he was going home with Sherlock.


End file.
